Death and all of his friends
by breathing is over-rated
Summary: Death can be found, but only when he chooses, and he can be summoned, and almost always he answers the call. Death doesn't have a body or being. He simply is. All of this is known, and yet, there is something that isn't. Death has a fascination. Rated T for now, might change in the future.
1. Chapter 1

**AN-** Hello, I know it's been a while but I have so much work...

Enjoy

B  
x

**Death and all of his friends**

Death doesn't walk. He glides, barely touching the ground as he moves.

Death can be anywhere and everywhere, he cares not for social conventions or convenience.

Death has no morals, no principles to which he must abide.

Death can be found, but only when he chooses, and he can be summoned, and almost always he answers the call.

Death doesn't have a body or being. He simply is.

All of this is known, and yet, there is something that isn't. Death has a fascination. Something he just can't figure out. That is the life of one human, an astounding man. A man who, through his own abilities, solves crimes. His own morals are twisted and torn in places yet he does more than most around realise. And he puts himself at risk trying to be better, dying to succeed. Death didn't like that, he didn't want the man to die until he could study further. Once he had carried the soul away, there was no chance of him doing this. So no, he could not allow his essence to creep upon this man.

He looked around for a way to extend the humans' life. Eventually, he came across a man in the sandpit of Afghanistan, dying. His sandy hair camouflaged against the ground were he lay. Death had been drawn by the calling of another, the one he had been trying to save. Not that it did any use, the human was long gone, but this healer, he could be saved. Death moved the bullet, away from the heart and into the shoulder. No, he wouldn't die. He would live and he would make the fascination live also.

Deaths' fascination had been given the name 'Sherlock Holmes', the healer was called 'John Watson'. He didn't care for names, he was known by many and none held any ground in him, but humans' seemed to rely on them for identity. Death went by many names and none had any hold on him, he didn't need to cling to words.

The two men met and sparks flew as the lines of fate hooked around them, pulling there souls together. They moved in together within a blink an eye. Death watched on as they settled, Sherlock's older sibling pulling John away in the hope to corrupt and parting without succeeding. Then he had to leave his fascination behind, his attention required elsewhere. John would watch over his new found friend.

Not an Earth's turn later, Death returned to his fascination's side. Sherlock faced an elderly man with the life seeping from him and the darkened glint of a blackened soul in his eyes. There was nothing that the Gatekeeper could do, one would die but he had no power over which it would be. He had meddled too much as it was. A bronze fate line glinted from the detectives chest. It trailed through the window and across to the building opposite. Death followed it and saw the blond standing in the window, weapon raised. The metallic pellet fired straight into the chest of the old man. As it did, the bronze line shuddered and shone brighter, turning silver.

Sherlock extracted a new name out of the dying male, a name which rang through Death. Moriarty, many a time had he picked up the corpses in the wake of that human, his black tendrils were woven into the fabric of the world's misery. He did not want his fascination to become that of Moriarty's too, there would be no way to protect him from such a torrent. John had proven he was a good choice but even he could not guard Sherlock from the evil. Evil was not a word Death often associated with anything, it did not do much to describe when it's context changed so rapidly, but it was the perfect fit for Moriarty. He allowed himself to drift away, his fascination safe for now.

The fate line which linked Sherlock and John grew stronger and brighter. By the next time Death visited, which was many Earth months later, the line blazed gold. They fought often and smiled even more so. Their life was comfortable but Death could sense a divide, his fascination was keeping something from his protector, something important. The Gatekeeper didn't like it. He could feel the end approaching for this male he had taken such an interest and there was nothing which could be done for him.

* * *

On the top of a building escaping with souls, Death's fascination made his final stand. In front of the male who basked in all the worlds suffering, including his own. The Gatekeeper dragged Moriarty's soul from his body, the male looked happy to see him. Like he had been waiting for this moment all his life. Death turned back to Sherlock, now stood on the brink of the building. He came to stand beside. The human turned to him. His eyes widened slightly as he saw Death, staring back at him.

_Holmes._ Death called to him. Sherlock shook his head slightly.

_Sherlock._ He replied. At peace with the action he was about to do and yet the strange melancholy in his mind.

_Why? _The Gatekeeper enquired, gesturing down with a shadowed hand. The human smiled softly and pointed down to his protector who stood at the bottom.

_He will die if I don't. _Sherlock answered. Death nodded and took his hand.

_Very well._ He hummed.

Together, they flew down to the ground. Sherlock's being ripped from him as he hit the pavement below, souring up with Death still grasping his hand. His protector ran to his side, tearing burning his eyes. Death's fascination watched on, his being pulsing with intense sadness at causing his friend harm. The Gatekeeper turned to the soul.

_Are you ready to move on? _Sherlock shook his head, his features shifting as he did, unused to movement. Death nodded and his hand fell through the soul's chest, pushing black wings out on his back. He retreated back, allowing his fascination to get used to the new limbs.

_I will give you a new body_. He said. _But you will always have these. They can not be hidden. You will be a trapped soul until you are ready to move on. _

They flew across London to a clearing in the park. Death manufactured a body, exactly like the one the human had had before. Sherlock watched as he moulded the face and added the eyes.

_Why are you doing this? _He asked, his mighty wings beating. Death tried a smile.

_You have been my fascination for many years and your protector will need help. His fate line is breaking even now, he will not last the year without you. After all the times he has saved you life, those you know of and those you don't. This is allowing you to repay him, for you may never meet in the next life if your fate line is broken now._ The winged soul nodded. He did not fully understand what was said but he knew that whatever the next life was, he wanted to be with John when he got there.

When Death had finished, clothing now in place as well, he gestured for his fascination to step inside. Sherlock slipped into his new body, his wings unfurling out behind him through carefully placed slits in the clothing. He clenched his hands and rolled his neck, being in a body feeling strange. His black wings took shape, forming bone and sinew and feathers. Sherlock looked at himself in the reflection of the lake. Death stood beside him, his image unseen by the watery mirror.

_I am leaving now._ He stated as he glided away. The trapped soul looked at his reflection again. He would go see John again but first he had to rid the world of the tendrils left by Moriarty.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock felt the shocked gazes on him as he walked through down the streets of Paris. As Death had told him seven months ago, he could not hide his wings. They pushed through all items of clothing, no matter how he tried to keep them hidden. Eventually, he gave up trying. He had far more important things to deal with and only a very short amount of time to do so. With Moriarty gone, his vast organisation snapped and dissected, making it harder to find all who were involved but much easier to dispose of them once found. But that didn't matter; Sherlock found that no door was closed to him, no alley too dark. He followed the paper trails, feeling the need to laugh bitterly as he thought back on all the times he refused to do his elder brothers leg work. The detective quickly pushed those thoughts away, they forced his emotions to the surface, the painful throb of guilt wrapped in helplessness and fear. He couldn't cope with them, not when there was so much he needed to do, so he got rid of them. Sherlock knew they wouldn't be gone forever, at some point he was going to have to face up to the emotions he had pushed away the whole of his life, but that was not now. Now he had to do everything to make John safe, then he had to get back to John and save him from himself.

Sherlock strolled down the street, his searching and sent him across every continent, every country, and now, he was leaving the shores of Calais, bound for London once more. He let his enhanced sight fall upon the cliffs of Dover, across the channel, he longed to take off in that very instance and fly back to John but he had one more job to do.

* * *

The greying lawyer knew what was going to happen the moment he saw the black winged male step through the threshold to his office. The winged spirit of Sherlock Holmes was out for his blood, and he was going to get it. Mr Woodham had only had a small stake in Moriarty's business; he had gone for help a few times and ended up investing a small amount in the organisation. It had been a good deal, or so he thought, and he made his 200% profit on his money in the first year, after that it only rose higher. But soon the consulting criminal wanted something other than money; he wanted facilities and hired hands. Mr Woodham, fearing the loss of profits at least and perhaps even the loss of his life, accepted. All too soon it became normal, those employed in his company knew better than to ask why staff went missing every few months. They were paid well for doing precious little and they couldn't hope to make as much as they did under Woodham Law Firm. It kept them bound tighter than any silence contract.

After Moriarty died on a rooftop somewhere in England, his followers were being picked off. The lawyer had severed all ties and covered his tracks but somehow he knew it wouldn't be enough, he heard tales of Moriarty's main rival, the man who jumped of the building, how he was seen wherever the followers were killed. The reported varied but mainly they said he had hollow eyes and wings as black as the night. The biggest rumour was that he had come back from the grave to drag all involved with Moriarty straight into hell as he didn't have the chance to do that to the criminal himself. Mr Woodham didn't believe in hell. However; in the instant that Sherlock past through his door, he changed his mind.  
"You're here to kill me." The lawyer accused, rising from his leather seat. The detective stretched his wings, their tips brushing opposite walls, before tucking them back in behind him. He didn't speak as he swept forward, gripping the lawyer by the throat and lifting him from the ground.  
"I will make this quick." Sherlock's voice was gruff from the lack of use. "I have somewhere to be." He squeezed the males' throat, his fingers digging into the skin until they drew blood. The winged soul felt the ripple of trapped air beneath his skin then pulled forward in one swift movement, tearing the trachea from the confines in the neck. Sherlock let go and watched Moriarty's last man fall to the ground.

* * *

As the white carpet stained red, the winged detective sat on the windowsill and swung his legs out of the open window. His borrowed skin prickled lightly and he didn't have to look behind him to know that Death was there, extracting the soul from the man. Death followed him everywhere he went, picking up the pieces he left behind. Sherlock's chest ached, he thought back on John. On John's fate line, he didn't know what a fate line was; only that everyone had them. Death spoke of John's whenever they crossed paths, a reminder of how little time he had remaining to save him. The detective poised his wings and leapt from his perch, the wind rippling around him until the moment he extended his additional limbs fully, catching the updraft and lifting him above the clouds where he set a course for home.


	3. Chapter 3

Home. Such a strange word. Who can really say what home is? Is it a place, a person, a time? Nobody can say for sure but still everybody uses it, often without thinking. Sherlock had never had cause to use it before, he had a house where he had been raised, the school which he had lived at from seven to sixteen years of age, the flat he had shared while at university, a small bedsit he had stayed at afterwards and then Baker Street. And he couldn't remember a time when he had called any of them home, before John. Everything deduction he made on his life could be separated into two piles; before and after John. John had saved him, he became a guiding light in the pitch black darkness which engulfed the detective, leading him through. The winged soul placed a hand over his chest. It ached as though he had been mortally wounded, a pain which was just beyond him as his brain began to shut down.

The ache spread from his chest to his wings, encasing each black feather with a weight almost to heavy to bear. Being without John had taken its toll. It was hard to concentrate when thoughts strayed back to the army doctor, those dreadful jumpers he wore, his small smile when he found something funny but knew he shouldn't laugh, the smell of tea melding with a scent which was purely John. Closing his eyes, Sherlock tried to recall the smell of his flatmate but it was just out of his reach, even John's face seemed skewed now, like he was looking up from the bottom of a pool, the water surface bending the light so that John didn't quite look like himself anymore. It had been too long.

Casting aside his thoughts, Sherlock silently landed on the doorstep and reached for the handle. There was a chill in the air, a light wind bit at his cheeks and ruffled his feathers. He shivered, though he didn't know why. He wasn't cold. Sherlock knew he was stalling and he turned to the 221b. The lock had been changed since the last time he had been there, the door looked worn and its paint chipped slightly. He turned his wrist, hearing the lock click, then he pushed the door open and stepped wordlessly inside.

The light in the bulb over the stairs had gone, casting foreboding shadows over each step from the one remaining light at the top. Sherlock climbed the assent, his feet barely touching the wooden panels beneath him. His wings vibrated, a shudder rippling through the black feathers. The closer he neared to the top, the more his wings tingled until he could not hold them still, no matter how he tried. Once at the top, he reached for the handle separating him from his only friend but hesitated. Part of him did not want to see what was behind the door. A thin layer of dust lay dormant on the handle to show it hadn't been touched in a while, Mrs Hudson was nowhere in sight, the flat was in a state of disrepair. Despite his best efforts, the winged soul feared the worst. He feared that time had beaten him, that he was too late, that he couldn't save John. One thing he couldn't do was walk in and see his only friend crumpled lifelessly on the floor. He couldn't. His entirely being would surely crack and shatter. If he couldn't save John then it had all been for naught, if he couldn't save John then… Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut

Eventually, he gripped the cold metal and twisted.

* * *

Sorry this chapter is so short, I'll try to update again soon, no promises though.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock stepped inside the flat, his wings hunched close to his back as he angled them under the door. The air was stale, like in abandoned houses where there had been no movement. The detective felt his lungs expand with the slow breaths he took. No heartbeat. It wasn't the first time that Sherlock had noticed, back then he was still getting used to this new body and he had thought he was dying again. But no, he was still here, just not alive. Not really. He supposed that this is what Death meant. Speaking of which, he was nowhere in sight. That was a good sign.

The winged soul moved through the living room, he was about to open the door when he heard shuffling from behind him.  
"Sherlock?" A quiet voice asked in the darkness. Sherlock whipped around, his wings flaring out in shock. John was sat in his armchair, his hands clenched in his lap. The detective walked over, only just managing to stop himself from running to his friend.  
"Yes John, I'm here." Sherlock answered. The doctor nodded.  
"I thought as much." He sighed. "I guess I really am going to die." The detective froze.  
"No, John. I'm here to tell you you're saved. I saved you, I did it. No one can hurt you now, John. You can go and live your life, be happy, have a family. I saved you." He stuttered, pretending he didn't feel the drop in temperature. John's face cracked into a smile, he laughed.  
"Too late, Sherlock." He hummed. "You're about ten minutes too late." The winged soul looked to the coffee table, to the emptied bottle on its surface. His inside clenched into a tight ball.  
"John." The baritone voice was broken. "Why?" The soldier raised a shaking hand, putting all his effort into placing it around Sherlock's.  
"I couldn't take it. I tried, God help me I tried, but it was too much. But you're here now. Here to guide me on, I expect. Mother always told me that the Gatekeeper took on the form of the one you loved most, dead or alive." His grasp lessened and the detective changed their positions so that he held onto John.  
"No, I've done too much to have you die on me now." He growled, lifting the doctor into the air.

Sherlock ran down the stairs and forced his way back out through the front door, unfurling his wings as soon as he passed the threshold and taking to the skies. John grew limper in his arms, he beat his wings faster. He couldn't let John die. Not now. He banked and spiralled down to the pavement outside of Bart's, it was the closest hospital and he was sure that he would be able to scare the doctors into working fast.

The detective burst through the doors of the main entrance, sending a few skittish people running.  
"Save him." He ordered. The doctor ushering a patient into the room stopped, his mouth hanging open as Sherlock stretched his wings out fully, a performance of dominance. "He has overdosed on sleeping pills. Save him or I swear that I will raise this hospital to the ground." The NHS worker hurried to comply but not fast enough. Sherlock snarled and strode forward, passing the doctor with such speed that he had to run to keep up. The detective knew that John would be scolding him right now if he weren't dying, he'd be telling him that that is not how to treat people, that he should go an apologise. That people weren't just things that he could force to do his bidding because he felt like it. Sherlock only wanted John to wake up and scold him. He just wanted John alive.

The doctor finally got in front of him and showed him into a small room. Sherlock placed his only friend down on the bed.  
"We're going to have to pump his stomach but there's no guarantee that he'll survive." He said, slipping a catheter into John's arm and pressed the button for the nurses.  
"Just don't let him die." Sherlock answered, the hard edge of his voice cracked on the last word and the doctor gave him a sympathetic glance, winged or not, this was still just a man. A man about to watch everything he loved die.  
"I'm going to need you to leave now." He ordered in a soft voice. The man stubbornly remained.  
"No." Came his adamant reply. The doctor sighed.  
"You'll frighten the rest of the staff, you have wings. If you want to give him every hope of pulling through you need to get out of this room before the rest of the team get here." The winged soul still looked unsure about leaving his friends' side. "I'll make sure we do everything we can." Sherlock nodded and swept out of the room, not looking back. If he looked back, he wouldn't be able to leave.


End file.
